


Where Nature May Heal

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Sickfic, Terrible Nineteenth Century Medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-07 00:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11047758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: When one of Musichetta's friends asks for assistance with a medical problem, the last thing any of them expect to find is smallpox in the middle of Paris.  Aren't the cholera epidemics enough to handle?  Everything becomes even more complicated when one of their own, who was supposed to be protected, succumbs to the illness.





	Where Nature May Heal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shellcollector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellcollector/gifts).



> This fic was written for Shellcollector, as a charity commission for the Fight Back Fic Auction. The prompt was to write more canon-era medical fic, which I was all too happy to do. If anyone's interested in the auction, please poke me at my tumblr (also estelraca). Notes on the canon-era medical information are in author's notes at the end. Feel free to read before or after the fic or not at all, depending on how much you want to learn about variolation and the terrible ideas canon era had about medicine.

_Where Nature May Heal_

"Well, my dears." Joly stands in the doorway to their bedroom, leaning on his cane. A beautiful pair of doeskin trousers are practically painted onto his lower body.

"Oh my." Musichetta breaks away from kissing Bossuet, turning her full attention to the man in the doorway.

Bossuet falls face-first onto the bed, a hand to his heart. "You should give warning before undergoing such a grandiose transformation!"

Joly blushes, a rosy redness to his cheeks that's visible even in the lantern light that currently provides illumination to their bedroom. It's one of the things Musichetta finds endearing about him—one of many on a long, long list, in all honesty. "Come now. It's not the first time you've seen me in something like this."

"No, but it is the first time in several months." Musichetta moves to the end of the bed, running her eyes slowly up and down Joly's frame. Between the cholera epidemics sweeping through town and his revolutionary work, Joly has been incredibly busy, and having this night just to themselves—for the three of them to enjoy each others' company, in all potential meanings of the phrase—is very precious.

"I do believe a bit of a show is in order, don't you?" Bossuet speaks the words into Musichetta's ear, one of his hands twining with hers, though the sounds are pitched to carry just as easily to Joly.

Joly's blush only deepens, though he paces a bit further into the room, leaning heavily on his cane with each step of his right leg. The only downside to claiming the evening for themselves is that everyone has already had a busy day, but Musichetta is certain they'll be able to overcome tired bodies rapidly. Turning in a slow circle, Joly makes sure to display his assets, both front and back. "You and your proclivities, Bossuet."

Lesgles grins, giving Musichetta's hand a squeeze. "It is not my fault that current fashion makes it much easier to peruse the posterior of men than it does of women, or that you have a fine one, or that you are good at showing it off. I'm fairly certain Musichetta approves of the view, too."

"Oh, very much so." Musichetta rises from her perch on the end of the bed, crossing the short distance to Joly. "Though I must say, monsieur, it is a sad thing to think of all the time that has gone into preparing this show when I fear my patience may not allow it to continue for much longer."

Joly goes into a deep bow, and oh, but Bossuet is right, their man is a _handsome_ thing who cleans up so _very_ well. "I am happy to put my knees to _whatever_ use you wish, my dearest."

"Which is an impressive offer, one that I am still wheedling to receive." Coming up behind Joly, Bossuet places a hand on each of his hips.

Joly straightens with a squeak that is very much _not_ of protest. Musichetta can feel a blush rising to her own cheeks. Tonight is going to be—

A fierce pounding on the door to their apartment causes all three of them to freeze. It's well past the time when any normal business should come by, and all of their friends know that they intended to take tonight for themselves. Either this is pressing revolution business, which could belong to any of them, or it is medical business.

It's uncharitable of her, but Musichetta spends a moment hating the fact that doctors are expected to be available at all hours of the day or night. If someone truly needs assistance, then yes, of course Joly should go to them, but aren't they allowed a _little_ time alone?

Throwing on a shawl to make herself slightly more presentable, Musichetta moves to answer the door. All her frustration and anger fades away when she sees Therese's frightened face, and she beckons her friend into the sitting room.

Therese ignores the chairs, turning to face Musichetta instead. "I know it's late, and I'm sorry to bother you, it's just..."

Musichetta takes her distraught friend's hand. "Something with the Lady's?"

"No, nothing with the revolution. Just..." She gives Musichetta's hand a brief squeeze, closing her eyes. "You remember Imelda? From the last meeting?"

Musichetta nods. The young immigrant had been quiet and distant, but had seemed nice enough.

"She's taken ill. _Quite_ ill, and I'm worried what it might be. At first she had seemed to be getting better, but then she took another downward turn, and I... I feel I'm a bit out of my depth." Therese bites down on her bottom lip, her eyes darting to Joly and Bossuet. "I know one of your boys is a physician, and I thought... perhaps... oh, if you'll just come and get a look at her...?"

Musichetta nods briskly. "Is it me you want, or Joly?"

Therese hesitates. "You, to start. Imelda has had... she is not comfortable with men she doesn't know. But if your doctor would come, too..."

Joly just nods, heading into the bedroom and closing the door. Musichetta tries not to pout too badly—the possibility of his getting the ridiculously tight pants off intact and then back on again is virtually zero. There are more important things happening now, though.

When Joly has a small bag of equipment in hand, he and Musichetta follow Therese out into the night. It's relatively clear, the air crisp and cool despite the warm spring day that had come before. Falling back to Joly's side, Musichetta takes his hand, finding comfort in the physical contact and hoping that he does, too.

Imelda's room is in one of the poorer though not quite destitute parts of town, and Musichetta follows Therese into a room that has seen better days, though it's clear Imelda has tried her best to keep it clean.

The young woman is bent double when they enter, vomiting bile into a bowl, both her hands pressed to her stomach. Musichetta doesn't even have to touch her to feel the heat rolling off her, and she sucks in a breath through her mouth. Most likely this is another in the long list of cholera cases, and it will be up to God and a toss of the dice if any of Joly's remedies actually work.

Imelda finally straightens up, whimpering slightly as she does. She uses a threadbare handkerchief to rub at her chapped, nearly-bleeding lips, squinting at Musichetta as Therese kneels down by her side.

"Imi, love." Therese rubs gently at Imelda's lower back. "You remember Musichetta, from the meeting of the Lady's? She's a dear friend of mine, and she knows something about medicine—has a man who knows more, though we won't invite him in unless you say it's all right."

"I cannot..." Imelda's voice is rough, her Parisian barely intelligible. "I... no coin..."

Musichetta moves closer to the bed. "You're one of us. If you get on your feet again and can pay forward to others what we do for you, that's all we ask. If you can't..." Musichetta shrugs. "Women and children know best that one cannot survive alone. Not for long, at least, and not through any hardships. Now, can you tell me when you started feeling ill, and what your first symptoms were."

Imelda turns bloodshot, tear-rimmed eyes towards Musichetta. " _Grazie_. I..."

Switching over to Italian, Musichetta settles on Imelda's other side, taking her hand gently. "No need for thanks. As I said, we're all in this together. Now, when..."

There is a strange texture to Imelda's hand, and Musichetta raises it closer to her eyes. An uncontrolled gasp escapes as she takes in the lesions that have started to erupt there. Leaning closer to Imelda's face, holding her breath just in case there are miasmas at work here, Musichetta sees the start of flat red lesions at the edge of the woman's hairline and on her neck.

"I began feeling ill... seven days ago? Headache first, and then the fever, and the vomiting... but it seemed to get better until yesterday. Yesterday, today, they have not been good." Imelda leans a bit away from Musichetta. "What are you doing? What do you see?"

Musichetta leans away, drawing a shallow breath and giving Imelda's hand a squeeze. She was variolated as a child, during one of the fierce pushes by the French physicians of Paris to eradicate the disease. She should be safe. But still... there is a reason the pox is so feared. "Imelda, have you ever had the pox, or been variolated against it?"

Musichetta uses the French word, not remembering the Italian one if she ever learned it. (She wouldn't remember the French one if not for Joly's rhapsodizing on the possibilities of a disease-free world if they could determine how and why variolation and the newer immunization method worked.)

"I..." Imelda's eyes go wide with fear and some of the tears slip free as she lifts her hand to study the lesions. She scrubs at them with the handkerchief, causing the most advanced to break open and leak pus and blood. "No. My home village was small... we haven't had an outbreak in over a century. And I have never heard of this... _variolated_."

"Where they take someone with the pox, squeeze the pus from one of their lesions, and place it into an injury on someone without it." Musichetta shrugs at the horrified looks on the faces of the two women sitting with her. "A few will die from it, but many fewer than who die from the natural pox. There were bands of young physicians in my youth going about, trying to convince all the villages to allow them to do it."

Imelda shakes her head. "Nothing like that was done to me. Oh... if I have the pox..."

"I'm not certain. I'm not actually a doctor." Musichetta reaches out and takes the younger woman's hands in hers again, giving them a gentle squeeze. (She should not be afraid, she reminds herself. She is supposedly protected. But still it takes an effort to make the gesture, though she knows it's needed to earn trust.) "My friend Joly is waiting outside. He is an excellent doctor, very cutting-edge. Would you be comfortable with him taking a look at you?"

Shrinking back against Therese, Imelda closes her eyes. "You trust him?"

"With my life. More than that—with my heart and my soul." The words are truer now than ever. Joly has grown over the last years, listening to her when she complains about either his politics or elements of their personal lives. He is one of the kindest, funniest, most caring people she has ever had the pleasure to know.

Hopefully he will know what to do with this situation.

Joly is leaning on his cane just outside the door, waiting patiently. He turns to Musichetta as soon as she emerges, expression concerned.

"I think..." Musichetta looks up and down the street, pitching her voice low for Joly's ears only. The last thing she wants to do is cause panic. She reaches for his arm, pulling his sleeve up to reveal a faint scattering of scars. They're worse higher up his arm, she knows; she has traced her fingers over all of them, on both sides of his body, during quieter times. "These are from when you had smallpox as a child, right?"

Joly assists her searching fingers, pulling the cuffs of his sleeves up, revealing more of the deep, uneven scars on his forearms. His voice is gentle as he repeats what he's told her before—what he repeated to _himself_ incessantly during that part of his medical curriculum that concerned the pox, reminding himself that he was safe now. "I survived the pox as a child. My village heads couldn't be convinced to allow variolation, and we paid the price for their fear. I was lucky not to get many severe lesions on my face."

Musichetta helps pull his cuffs back down, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Joly's cheek. "I'm afraid... I know I'm not a doctor, but..."

"I'll take a look myself, but if you're right... we'll need to do what we can to contain the illness." Joly nods towards Imelda's room. "What about your other friend?"

Shaking her head, Musichetta takes Joly's hand to lead him in. "I don't know. Therese, have you had smallpox already, or—"

Therese is already shaking her head, her face pale. "I haven't."

Joly moves towards Imelda, kneeling down on the ground when she starts to flinch away from him. "I'm Musichetta's friend. I would like to examine you, if you don't mind, and see what we can do to assist you."

Imelda holds out a hand to Therese, who takes it without hesitation. Then she nods to Joly, though she continues to tremble as he takes her free hand, checks her pulse, examines the lesions on her arms and on her face. Moving away from Imelda, Joly uses his cane and Musichetta's hand to help lever himself to his feet. "Would you mind telling me about your symptoms?"

Imelda stumbles through a synopsis of when she began feeling what symptoms. It's easier for her to speak in Italian, and Musichetta helps to translate when Joly finds himself at a loss to follow.

After about four minutes of back-and-forth discussion Joly looks down at the floor and sighs. "I'm afraid that your symptoms are all consistent with smallpox. The good news is that you seem to otherwise be healthy, and healthy adults have the lowest mortality rate. Assuming... is there a possibility that you're at all in the family way?"

Imelda looks to Musichetta in confusion, and when Musichetta translates Imelda shakes her head vehemently. "No. Certain no."

"Good." Joly smiles gently. "There are some things we can do to try to help your body recover—to try to keep the fever down, and speed healing of the lesions. We'll want to arrange your bed according to the magnetic pole... to ensure you drink copiously... there are enemas that can be tried, and of course bloodletting if that isn't working..."

Imelda's face somehow goes even paler at the mention of enemas and bloodletting, and Musichetta places a hand on Joly's arm. "Perhaps we'll start with the simpler methods?"

Joly's gaze moves to where Imelda is clutching Therese's hand in a brutal grip and he nods. "Of course. I'll also speak with Combeferre, and see if he's heard of any new treatments. We should withhold food until the vomiting has passed, at least. The most important thing, though... I'm sure you're aware that smallpox spreads quickly and easily to those who haven't had it before, or had some protection imparted in other ways. We should keep everyone who hasn't survived infection already away from these quarters, and try to limit contact between those with symptoms and those who haven't had the infection already."

Therese looks up at Joly. "And me...?"

"If you've been caring for her... we'll see over the next few days if you develop symptoms." Joly pulls a small compass from his bag and begins directing them on how to arrange the room. A small vial of liquid and one of powder follow the compass. He indicates the liquid. "Take one spoonful every twelve hours. The powder is to be mixed into an enema if the fever doesn't break within twenty-four hours."

It's Therese who repeats back the instructions, Imelda having been seized by another fit of vomiting.

Joly turns to Musichetta. "I am tempted to return to Bossuet for the night, to let him know what's happening. In the early morning I can contact Combeferre, and then we can return here with water and other necessities, and see how our patients are doing."

Musichetta sits on the edge of the bed next to Therese, who is currently rubbing Imelda's back as she continues to dry-heave. "Would you be comfortable watching her for the night? I'll watch her tomorrow, and you can rest while I do."

"That would be lovely." The smile Therese gives is strained but, Musichetta thinks, heartfelt. "I appreciate all you've done already."

"We aim to assist if we can." Joly bows to the two women as he and Musichetta make their goodbyes.

Musichetta holds tight to Joly's hand as they begin the trek back to their lodgings, trying not to shiver too much as the night wraps dark, chill fingers around them.

XXX

Bossuet takes the news with his usual good cheer. Rolling up his left sleeve, he exposes a long, ugly scar. "It wasn't from a duel, actually. It was from the variolation procedure when I was younger. Mine turned into a right mess, worse than anyone else in town."

Musichetta kisses the scar. "Of course it did."

Joly finds himself smiling as he allows himself to settle down onto the bed. "That means we're all protected, though. That's good."

"So we can all help, if need be." Bossuet shakes his head. "It would be a terrible thing if an epidemic were to start now, on top of the cholera scare."

Joly nods. "We'll do what we can to contain it, and to assist those stricken. That's all we can do, really."

Musichetta settles next to him on the bed, gathering his hand between both of hers. "You do good, Joly. Even when it doesn't feel like you're able to do enough."

A grimace is Joly's first reply. "It's just... frustrating, when we can recognize a disease but do so little to treat or control it. Variolation is providing some relief, and there's the vaccination talk coming out of England now, but for someone who is actually _ill_... at least it's not so bad as hydrophobia. The fatality rate usually only reaches as high as three in ten even during the worst epidemics, and those are usually children, the infirm, and the pregnant."

"None of which will apply to cases here." Despite the firmness to Musichetta's words, Joly can see her lips trembling, and he cups her cheek with his free hand, leaning in to give her a gentle kiss.

"Come." Joly turns a suggestive smile to Bossuet. "Let us get a good night's sleep while we can. I need to be off at dawn."

They do a bit more than just sleeping, but it's nice to have his loves pressed close to him, especially with the possibility of death suddenly so strong in the air. Despite the late hour at which they finally turn in, Joly rouses himself with the sun, determined to visit Combeferre before the man is dragged off on some adventure or other.

He arrives at Combeferre's room early enough to catch the man, though not early enough to rouse Combeferre. His friend and colleague already has three books spread open, a modest breakfast of bread and cheese sitting carefully off to the side, untouched.

"Joly." Combeferre smiles as he beckons for Joly to enter the room. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"To work, unfortunately." Joly grimaces, rubbing at his nose with his cane as he enters and finds a piece of furniture that isn't otherwise occupied by books, papers, entomology specimens, biological experiments, skeletons, or articles of clothing. "I believe I've encountered a case of smallpox."

Combeferre's eyebrows draw together. "Here? In Paris?"

"Unfortunately." Joly sighs. "I was just wondering if you had heard any new information about treatment options."

"For those who have already begun showing signs..." Combeferre gives his head a little shake. "I've heard that some of American natives believe one of the local plants can help the ill to recover, but whether that's simply superstition or not... and it unfortunately fails to help us here. There are the typical non-specific treatment recommendations for fever..."

"That's what I was afraid you would say." Joly sighs again, giving vent to emotions that he will have to hide when with his patient. "At least we seem to have sufficient hands to help care for the ill for the moment."

"Variolated and those having naturally recovered?" Combeferre leans a little closer to Joly.

Joly nods. "Also one unprotected who has already been exposed... I'll be watching her for signs of illness."

"I'll spread the word for people to be on the look-out for anyone showing symptoms." Pinching the bridge of his nose, Combeferre shakes his head. "This is the last thing we need right now."

"It may not be anything significant. From what I've heard the patient hasn't been in Paris long, and Musichetta is going to talk with most of those she's been in contact with, to tell them what to watch out for. Though I wouldn't be averse to bringing back the _pouf a l'inoculation_ , just to remind people that the threat isn't completely gone."

Combeferre gives a little laugh. "We can come up with something a bit more dignified and a bit less tied into royalty to encourage variolation, I think. Or vaccination—the English are producing more and more evidence that vaccination is a safer and equally effective alternative."

"Perhaps we can quietly encourage another push to variolate or vaccinate all those who haven't been already." Joly taps his cane against the floor. "I also intend to follow the hygiene model for everyone dealing with the infected. I know it hasn't been proven, and many still prefer the miasma model—and I certainly will be encouraging ventilation—but I see no reason not to cover as many bases as possible."

"With something as dangerous and potentially deadly as this, I agree, I see no reason not to try everything that isn't immediately harmful." Combeferre reaches out to lay his hand atop Joly's. "You will tell me if there's anything else I can do, or anything else that you need?"

Joly smiles. "In a heartbeat. I should return to check on my patient and ensure that proper quarantine procedures are being followed, though. Will you give my regards and apologies to Enjolras this evening? Bossuet and I will try to attend meetings as we can, but for the health and safety of both patients and friends we may be absent quite a lot over the next little bit."

"I'm sure everyone will understand." Combeferre stands, reaching for his hat and coat. "I'll also be sure to see who might be able to assist and who should stay safely away... or consider taking the opportunity to gain some immunity."

"I appreciate all of your assistance more than words could say." Joly stands, as well, being sure not to disturb any of the careful stacks next to him.

He and Combeferre exit and go their separate ways, hopefully to together prevent any additional epidemics from gripping the city.

XXX

The next six days pass in a blur of work and worry for Musichetta.

Joly is his usual calm, warm self, and she is glad that he is the one to help them decide what treatments to pursue. Even Imelda seems to warm to him, slowly but surely, though that doesn't stop her from muttering expletives about how the enemas he prescribes are intended to kill her. Despite her protests by the fourth day of treatment her fever has broken and the lesions are starting to heal. She will have scars on both her hands and her face, and Joly is concerned that vision may be permanently impaired in her left eye, but it's clear she's on the way to mending.

Unfortunately Therese has taken ill by then. The headaches start the first morning Musichetta is helping her with Imelda; three days later the pustules are forming, and Musichetta holds her friend's hair out of the way as Therese vomits into a bucket.

"It's not fair." Therese speaks quietly, so as not to disturb Imelda, tears standing out in her eyes. "I just wanted to _help_. And I seemed to be doing better, yesterday..."

"That's how these things often go." Musichetta strokes a hand over Therese's fever-slick head. "We'll get through it, though. You're not alone, and we won't leave until you're back on your feet."

Bossuet is a lifesaver for Musichetta during those days. He cares little for his studies at the best of times, and clearly thinks that assisting those in need should come first. He manages to make both Therese and Imelda smile several times a day, even when they are feeling at their worst.

"We're lucky." Joly murmurs the words to Bossuet and Musichetta as they share a warm, hearty stew for dinner. "I haven't found or heard of any other cases. We may actually have headed this off before it became too terrible."

Bossuet raises his glass of watered-down wine in silent toast. "To the tenacious buggers who worked hard to convince everyone to get protection, whether they wanted it or not."

Musichetta and Joly are both happy enough to drink to that. They're happy enough to be together, period; it's always good to have both her men at her side, with nothing cataclysmic in the near future.

"Imelda should be back to normal fairly soon." Joly twirls his spoon in his bowl. "And if Therese's illness follows the same schedule, we'll all be back to our regular routine by the start of next week."

"Let's pray for that, then." Musichetta raises her own glass in toast. "I look forward to celebrating the end of this with you both."

The grin that Bossuet gives her is definitely suggestive. "Any opportunity to celebrate life with you, my beauty, is a great opportunity."

Giving his shoulder a shove, Musichetta smiles down at her bowl as she returns to her meal.

The next day is when everything goes wrong.

She knows that Bossuet is feeling unwell in the morning. He is slower and quieter than normal, squinting against the hazy light as he airs out the rooms. He still smiles at her, though, and she assumes it's just the long hours they've been keeping and the stress of playing nursemaid catching up to him.

He doesn't seem to recover as the day wears on, though, and by early afternoon Musichetta can't quite contain her fear. It's silly, she knows. Bossuet has been protected. But still... moving to her love's side, she places a hand on his forearm, drawing his attention away from the enema he's preparing. "Are you feeling all right?"

Bossuet grins at her, and it's his usual smile, though Musichetta thinks she can see pain rather than playfulness in the wrinkles that form at the corners of his eyes. "I'm fine, love. No need to worry."

Musichetta tries not to. She tries to tell herself that everything's fine—that it _must_ be fine, that they've been careful and cautious. Joly believes variolation works, and if anyone should know it would be him.

Evening brings with it nausea, though, and when she's wiping Bossuet's feverish brow as he vomits into the bowl he had been holding for Therese, Musichetta knows this is much worse than that.

"Not necessarily." Joly tries to sound reassuring, though Musichetta can see the fear in his eyes as well as he studies Bossuet. He checks Bossuet's cheeks repeatedly, looking for any signs of pustules. "It could just be overwork. Exhaustion. Or some kind of intestinal problem..."

Musichetta clutches at Joly's jacket sleeve. "We've all been sharing meals, and none of the rest of us are ill."

"Ah, but I always have the worst luck." Bossuet smiles at Musichetta, shoving Joly's little mirror away from his mouth. "Until we have reason to believe that it's something worse, I'll just try to do a bit less of the physical labor. I can be a supervisor of sorts. Seems suited to my talents, yes?"

XXX

Bossuet is a lovely supervisor, taking to the role as though he were an actual actor rather than a law student who would prefer to be anything _but_ a lawyer. Knowing that all the sympathies in the house lie to the Republican side of the spectrum, he makes a vicious mockery of everyone from the nobility to the bourgeois to the vicious factory owner, making all of them laugh. He even seems to recover a bit, after forty-eight hours.

It's a recovery that doesn't last, and they all know what that means even before Joly finishes his inspection.

Joly's eyes and pale cheeks confirm all their suspicions even before he begins giving his diagnosis. Bossuet is feverish again, and finding the first hint of lesions on his forearms and the inside of his cheeks leaves no doubt as to why. "I don't understand." Joly's grip on Bossuet's scarred arm is so tight his knuckles have turned white, and Musichetta can see a slight tremble of his free hand. "You were variolated. This shouldn't be happening."

Bossuet shrugs, shivering as he places his hand atop Joly's. "It's me. Can you imagine anything more in line with the way the rest of my life has gone than being horribly scarred by a procedure that didn't even work?"

The ghost of a smile flits across Joly's face, and Musichetta can see him visibly pulling himself together, gathering his doctor's dignity and poise so that he can handle this new crisis. "As I told the women, you have a very good prognosis, all things considered. You're young and healthy—"

Bossuet lifts a hand to pat at his ever-growing bald spot. "Aside from my—what did you call them? Follicles?"

"The health of your hair follicles, in this case, likely owes more to your family than to your general state of well-being." A tiny smile graces Joly's face, and he relaxes a bit more.

Putting one arm around Bossuet's shoulder and one around Joly's, Musichetta holds both her loves close. "We've become quite adept at caring for the ill, I think."

Imelda takes a tentative step closer to them. "You are, of course, welcome to stay here. I owe you a great deal."

"As much as I wish we could drag you home and swaddle you in your own bed..." Joly takes both Bossuet's hands in his. "For everyone's sake, it is best that we keep those infected to one area."

"I will never complain about being invited to stay with a beautiful woman." Bossuet smiles gently at Imelda, who blushes and looks away.

Joly stands, moving to his bag of medical supplies and muttering quietly to himself as he measures out elixirs.

Musichetta shifts so that she's holding Bossuet closer, his head tucked against her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, my love." Bossuet murmurs the words in the softest whisper. "I know you were looking forward to us finally going home."

"You've no need to be sorry. I'm sure you didn't wish to get ill." Musichetta holds him just a bit tighter. "We'll have you healed up and home in no time."

"I'll drink to that." Bossuet's fingers slide along her thigh, and Musichetta gives him a kiss at the corner of his mouth in return, hoping it won't irritate the sores there.

XXX

The women are kind enough to give Bossuet the mattress and arrange themselves in cots on the floor once it's clear that he's the sickest of the bunch, and Joly can't express his gratitude in words.

He keeps repeating the facts of the case to himself, hoping that they will help assuage his worry. Bossuet is young and in good health. He should have at least partial immunity from the failed variolation attempt. The likelihood of his dying is very slim, and anything less is manageable. A bit of scarring? Damage to his vision? They can handle that. The others have been nothing but kind about Joly's limp, after all.

Sometimes those thoughts are the only things keeping him sane as Bossuet tosses and turns, caught in the grips of high fever.

After thirty-six hours of holding an only semi-coherent Bossuet still, administering draughts and enemas as suggested by the latest guidelines, Joly looks into Musichetta's tear-filled eyes and feels almost on the verge of incoherence himself.

"There's nothing more we can do?" Musichetta's words are despairing, barely loud enough to reach Joly's ears. He knows that she asks out of exhaustion and the dark depths of fear—she is usually very hesitant to question him on his medical treatments, knowing how carefully he thinks through each one.

"The only other thing we could do..." Joly glances back towards his bag, and the two women huddled quietly against the opposite wall, trying to give them what privacy can be afforded. He hates using bloodletting, finding it a messy and painful process for all involved, but sometimes there are no other options.

Limping over to his bag, Joly retrieves the necessary tools. When he turns back to Musichetta her face has paled, her lips pinching together with worry, but she doesn't say anything.

Imelda does. She steps forward, gesturing to the measuring cup, razor blade, and bandages Joly is holding. "What?"

"The only thing I haven't done yet is bloodletting. Perhaps that will finally cause the fever to recede." A headache is beginning to throb at Joly's temples, and he spends a moment just breathing, reminding himself that _he_ absolutely cannot acquire the illness again. "Would the two of you be willing to help hold him, if need be?"

Therese and Imelda consult in a mish-mash of Italian and at least two dialects of French before turning back to him with matching grim nods.

Moving back to Bossuet's side, Joly settles his accouterments within easy reach on a stool before running his fingers over the lesion-pocked skin of his lover's forehead. "Lesgles? My eagle, can you hear me?"

Bossuet's eyes flutter open, and he stares at Joly in confusion for a moment before smiling. "Hello, my jolly fellow. You look... tired."

Joly feels as though he has been awake for a thousand years, but he restrains himself to just a small smile and a shrug in answer to Bossuet's query. "Do you remember that you're ill?"

"Oh, that's good. Means... I wasn't struck by a carriage... again." Bossuet struggles weakly to sit up, and Musichetta assists him, propping his body against hers. "I feel... really right awful, Jolllly."

"I know." Joly takes Bossuet's hand in his, turning it over, sketching his fingers over the lines in Bossuet's palm. "I'm trying to make you feel better."

"Oh no. I know... that face." Bossuet turns to smile muzzily at Musichetta. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"Very few people enjoy this." Musichetta presses a kiss to Bossuet's forehead. "But we'll both be right here, during and after, and it should make you feel better."

"And if you do feel like enjoying it, well..." Joly mutters the words under his breath. "Ladies, would you be willing to take positions on either side of him? The most important thing is that he not move the arm I'm working on. Understood?"

Therese moves to Musichetta's other side, using the wall to brace herself and helping pin Bossuet in place; Imelda chooses the less confined option, grabbing Bossuet's right wrist and holding it tight.

Joly talks everyone through the procedure as he works. He's found that it helps to keep everyone focused, and to prevent anyone from falling into hysterics. Bossuet, for his part, is a model patient. He keeps his eyes focused on Joly for the duration of the procedure, barely flinching when razor touches flesh, never looking at the liquid that trickles down his arm.

It's a display of faith and love that touches Joly to the core. He takes the minimum recommended amount of blood and then hastily cleans and bandages the incision he had made, making sure there's no strike-through before pulling Bossuet's sleeve down over the bandage. He gives Bossuet's shoulder a little pat. "There. Hopefully in a few hours your fever will break and you'll be feeling better."

"How could I feel anything less than fantastic?" Bossuet uses his free hand, finally released from Therese's grip, to stroke Joly's face. "I have my two favorite people in the world right here with me, keeping... me safe."

"Don't speak." Joly presses the softest kiss to Bossuet's lips. "Just rest."

Bossuet closes his eyes, seeming to fall into a restless slumber.

Joly cleans his instruments and returns them to his bag. Then he settles next to the bed, allowing himself to curl as close to Bossuet and Musichetta as the available space allows, and hopes that all he has done hasn't been in vain.

XXX

Imelda answers the knock at her door, but when Musichetta sees who's standing on the other side she hastily jumps to her feet. Bossuet is still turning restlessly, lost in the fever; Joly has finally drifted off to a bit of much-needed rest.

That leaves her to deal with the poet standing on Imelda's doorstep, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, a bundle clutched to his chest.

"Jean Prouvaire." Musichetta allows herself to lean against the door, needing the support. "You know what's happening here? You're protected in some way?"

Jehan rolls up one of his sleeves, revealing a neat little scar. "I was kissed by the pox as a child—with physician assistance."

Musichetta scrubs a hand across her eyes, resisting the urge to point out that Bossuet had also been variolated. "Still, better to stay safe. Unless you need Joly or Bossuet for something...?"

"I have something _for_ Bossuet, rather." Jehan holds out the bundle in his arms. "Combeferre's been keeping us informed of what's happening. You have the well-wishes and prayers of all the Amis with you."

Turning the bundle over in her hands, Musichetta squints down at it. The fabric is a beautiful bright red decorated with swirling patterns in a darker red thread, and it slides easily between her hands. "What is this?"

"There's a belief, among several peoples, that wearing red will help to drive away the pox." Jehan's fingers reach out, glancing over the patterns. "These designs are also supposed to help bring health. I thought, if you didn't mind... you could wrap Bossuet in it. Every little extra edge we can give our eagle will be helpful, no?"

Folding the blanket close to her chest, Musichetta blinks eyes that are suddenly blurry with tears. "I'll do that. Thank you, Jehan."

"It's a small thing to do for a friend." The poet bows to her, and then straightens. "Is there anything else I can do?"

Musichetta glances behind her, at the small room full of exhausted people. "If you didn't mind... if I were to give you money, could you fetch us some food items?"

"Certainly." Jehan straightens. "Tell me what you need, and we'll ensure that it's acquired."

Musichetta recites a short list, and Jehan is off on his errand.

Moving to Bossuet's side, Musichetta carefully arranges the blanket Jehan brought around Bossuet's fever-warm shoulders.

Perhaps it will do nothing but remind them all of the friends they have, but right now... right now that's a precious thing all by itself.

XXX

Whether it's the bloodletting or the blanket or something else, Bossuet's fever breaks within twenty-four hours. Musichetta throws her arms around first Bossuet, then Joly, and then Therese and Imelda out of sheer joy. Bossuet says something suggestive that Musichetta doesn't quite catch, earning the gentlest little chastising brush of fingers against Bossuet's forearm from Joly and another blush from Imelda, but Musichetta doesn't care.

Bossuet could say anything right now, stupid, ignorant, sexist, even Royalist, and she'd still want to just hug him silly.

The lesions begin healing within another day. Bossuet complains that they itch as they heal, and Joly scolds him again and again about scratching at them, warning that the more he scratches the more likely they are to scar. Musichetta finds herself doing whatever she can to distract him, be that reading, fetching information from Bahorel or one of the other Amis about what has been going on, or teasing him mercilessly.

Four days after the fever breaks, when the lesions are mostly healed, Joly says the most wondrous thing in the world. "I think, my loves, that it would be fine for us to go home now."

He doesn't have to say anything more. Imelda's rooms are fine for one, but they are incredibly cramped with five, and Musichetta misses her own place and her own belongings. Almost before the words are out of Joly's mouth, she has their possessions packed up and is bidding a temporary farewell to her female friends.

Bossuet is still a little under the weather, so they walk slowly, Musichetta on one of his arms and Joly on the other.

"This is the life." Bossuet looks up at the damp Parisian afternoon sky.

Joly raises one skeptical eyebrow. "You say that now? After what we've been through these last two weeks?"

"Of course I say it now." The quizzical look that Bossuet shoots Joly could almost be sincere. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe in the last three weeks we have prevented an epidemic, helped to save the lives of two very lovely young women, overcome a terrible illness with minimal long-term repercussions, and are now on our way home for a delightful evening together."

Musichetta shakes her head. "A delightful evening may involve more energy than any of us have at the moment."

"No." Joly smiles softly to himself, his head ducking down so that his eyes are fixed on the road. "All a delightful evening needs is the two of you alive and well."

Since Musichetta can't argue with that, she just tightens her hold on Bossuet's arm. After a few paces she begins singing—a song that is only _slightly_ politically subversive, and that has some rather delightful puns in it.

Joly takes up the song after only a few bars. Bossuet attempts to and then decides that humming along is a better idea if he wishes to continue walking.

They are alive, they've done good, and they're going home together.

Musichetta couldn't ask for anything more from the universe right now.

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes on the historical ideas included in this:
> 
> -Variolation was relatively common in Asia and the Middle East since about the fifteenth century, and was brought to Europe (first England, then spreading) by the wife of an English ambassador to Turkey in the 1760s.  
> -Variolation actually worked fairly well! The mortality rate when it was performed properly was only about 1-2%, with very few people being scarred or losing vision (the two common long-term complications for smallpox survivors). Compared to a 20-30% mortality rate with normal infection, depending on strain, this was incredible.  
> -France actually embraced variolation very early and very aggressively. After Louis XV died of smallpox, Louis XVI got himself variolated. A hat/hairstyle combination was then created that could only be worn by those who were variolated to help push for variolation in the big cities.  
> -French medical universities actually sent out teams to the countryside trying to variolate everyone and prevent future epidemics. Sometimes this worked; sometimes this was met with suspicion and refusal.  
> -...Especially because once they figured out variolation worked, they decided to try to improve the process by fasting and bleeding patients for 1-2 weeks prior to the procedure. Which had the exact opposite of its intended effect, increasing the mortality rate and risk of complications and further frightening people away from it.  
> -Vaccination with cowpox and related viruses was just starting to spread out of England and into the rest of Europe in canon era.  
> -Sometimes I think "I am using bloodletting way too much in my canon era medical fics, it always comes up!". Then I do research for another fic and the normal treatment is "bloodletting!" and I go "...okay, maybe it's not me it's them". There were lots of suggestions for treating smallpox patients, but the two most common were "enemas to reduce fever" which... okay, I can see why they thought it was a good idea, but NOT A GOOD IDEA with already-prone-to-dehydration patients, and bloodletting. Because when in doubt open a vein.  
> -The plant that Combeferre mentions is a North American pitcher plant. It was believed by several native American tribes to help decrease the severity of smallpox symptoms, and it has been found in recent years in in vitro studies to actually reduce the replicative properties of smallpox! Which is super cool. And did probably help save lives on the western side of the Atlantic, though it was unfortunately too little too late.  
> -There was a belief in several countries and among several cultures that the color red would help frighten away the pox, either preventing illness in those who didn't have it yet or helping to speed recovery.


End file.
